


Waltz For The Dead

by Must_Be_Thursday



Series: The Kindest Thing [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (he's mostly human though), Aftermath of Torture, Assisted Suicide, Blood and Injury, Depressive Episode, Disembowelment, Drowning, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's a 5 times type thing, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Platonic Life Partners, Pneumonia, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, We'll get to the coast eventually, Yep. I named it after Farewell Wanderlust., arrow wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Must_Be_Thursday/pseuds/Must_Be_Thursday
Summary: "...we can't make your death a regular occurrence."A few of the many deaths in the long life of Julian Alfred Pankratz.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Kindest Thing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080722
Comments: 31
Kudos: 190





	1. Soggy Clothes and Breezeblocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote in the summary comes from the first work in this series. Jaskier's pseudo-immortality is explained there if you're interested:)

It was a stupid way to die. And rather painful. Jaskier always assumed drowning would be a peaceful way to go, considering the mangled corpses he’d seen from years of following Geralt. It was quicker than most poisons and couldn’t possibly be as painful as being torn apart by a beast. But drowning was agonizing in its own right.

Many long summers were spent in the cool spring near his parents’ estate, so he’d been a strong swimmer from a young age. Drowning was never something he feared. Which was probably the cause of much of the panic he felt at being unable to breathe. That and the drowners dragging him down by the ankle.

Jaskier knew well that panic wouldn’t help. But by the time he had gotten his wits about him and stopped struggling, he’d already lost the quick breath he managed to take before the drowners pulled him under. His chest started to ache, and he knew he’d take water in soon no matter how hard he fought. 

Logically, he knew he’d be okay. Geralt would take care of the drowners and find his body before he woke up, so he needn’t fear drowning repeatedly at the bottom of the pond. But Ciri would feel awful, the poor girl already carried the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. The last thing she needed was more guilt. After all, it had been his decision to drag her from the drowners’ grip and toss her ashore. 

At the same time, he couldn’t help but be grateful that he could help protect Ciri. He’d quickly grown to love Geralt’s child surprise and would gladly give his life several times over to protect her. Not many people had the luxury of actually being able to do so for the ones they care about.

Jaskier’s vision started to fade. He wasn’t sure if it was the depth of the water, or lack of oxygen. Probably both. Part of him wanted to fight, hold on a little longer until his body forced him to take a breath. But Jaskier hated being told what do to. He lived on his own terms, and while this wouldn’t be the last time he died, he was going to do it on his own terms too. 

He forced himself to relax and let go. He allowed the cool water to flow past his lips and took in as much as he could on the first breath, knowing he wouldn’t be able to draw the strength to do it voluntarily again. It burned when it hit his lungs, causing him to thrash weakly. Panic tried to take hold again, but he knew it would be over soon.

Jaskier didn’t fight unconsciousness when it came for him. His heart gave out long before Geralt pulled him free.

*********

Geralt had just caught a decent sized hare for dinner when he heard Ciri’s distant screams.

“Geralt?! Geralt!” the girl had a set of lungs that could rival Jaskier’s, but Geralt was grateful he could hear her, though it took too long to get back. 

Ciri was kneeling on the bank of the pond when he found her, soaked to the bone and shaking from shock.

“Geralt! Jaskier, they dragged him under. I – I don’t know what they are. I was filling the water skins and they pulled me in. He jumped in and got me loose and threw me out, but more came and they – they –.”

“It’s okay, I’ll get him out,” Geralt cut Ciri off before she worked herself into a full blown panic. He pulled his silver sword from its sheath.

She shook her head frantically, “He – he’s been under so long.”

“I’ll get him, I promise,” Geralt said, already wading into the water, “Get back from the edge. Wait by Roach.”

He turned and dove under, not waiting to see if Ciri listened.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the murky water that had been churned up by Jaskier’s thrashing. A few more strokes and he could make out the shape of the bard lying on at the bottom of the pond.

The drowners turned their attention to Geralt when they noticed him. He slashed through the small nest with ease, five drowners hardly standing a chance against an angry witcher. He dove deeper and wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s chest to haul him to the surface.

Geralt dragged Jaskier up the shallow bank and winced when he noticed the blue tinge to the bard’s lips. He hovered his hands uselessly over Jaskier’s body before resting a hand over his heart. Geralt knew he wouldn’t find anything, knew Jaskier was dead. He usually would be able to pick up the steady cadence of Jaskier’s heart, but instead silence rang in his ears, broken only by the muted sloshing of the water in Jaskier’s lungs as he shifted him flat on his back.

He needed to do something, he needed to try and save him. He tipped Jaskier’s head back and leant down to breathe for him. And paused.

Jaskier was dead, cold, and blue. There was a chance, however small, that he could still revive him, but trying to do so would probably do more harm than good. More than likely it was already too late, and Jaskier would wake up in a few hours on his own. Cracked ribs and a bruised chest from compressions would only add to the trauma that his body needed to heal, and it would make any lingering pain he had after waking up much worse. But giving up went against everything Geralt stood for, even when it was for the best. 

Geralt let out a shaky sigh and sat down heavily on the ground. He picked up Jaskier’s cool hand and studied his painfully still face. 

“I’m sorry, Jask,” he whispered.

He sat motionless until Ciri crept over. She knelt opposite Geralt and reached out a shivering hand to stroke Jaskier’s cheek. 

“Are you hurt?” Geralt finally asked.

Ciri shook her head but kept her eyes on Jaskier.

“It wasn’t your fault, Ciri.”

The princess looked up, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Even I didn’t notice the drowners,” Geralt said, his own guilt leaking into his voice, “He’ll be okay soon.”

Ciri nodded and looked back down at Jaskier, “I know,” she said quietly, “I just…I guess I thought it would be easier. If this happened again.”

Geralt leaned over Jaskier to press a kiss to Ciri’s forehead. Her own skin was chilled, though not nearly as bad as Jaskier, and he realized her shivers were from the cold as much as shock.

“Go put some dry clothes on,” Geralt said, “I’ll bring him over to the fire.”

Ciri reluctantly pulled herself away from Jaskier and took her spare clothes behind Roach to change.

Geralt gave Jaskier’s hand a gentle squeeze and carefully pulled him up into a bridal carry to move him close to the heat of the fire. His bard wouldn’t need the warmth for a while, but Geralt wasn’t sure what else to do.

He peeled off Jaskier’s soaking clothes, pulled him onto his bed roll and managed to get him into dry clothes while preserving the bard’s modesty. After he tucked a quilt around Jaskier, Geralt could almost pretend he was just sleeping, if it weren’t for the chalky pallor to his skin. It made it a little easier for him to pull away for a moment. 

Geralt quickly changed out of his own wet clothes and dug around in their food supply to find something he could coax Ciri to eat. He was sure her appetite had dwindled as much as his, but he made a promise to take care of her. 

He returned to Jaskier’s side and collapsed next to him. Ciri was sitting cross legged near his head, carefully drying his hair. They soon ran out of things to do to try and make Jaskier more comfortable and found themselves sitting in silence. Geralt picked Jaskier’s hand back up and Ciri occasionally ran her fingers through his hair. 

Geralt eventually dragged Jaskier into his lap. Jaskier had always been a very tactile person and some part of Geralt hoped he might wake sooner if he could sense Geralt holding him. 

Ciri leaned against his side and buried her face in Geralt’s shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. “You should get some sleep,” he said, noticing that night had fallen.

She shook her head, “I want to stay up until he wakes.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest but floundered for a moment. He understood. Jaskier had been alone when he woke up last time. They wouldn’t do that to him again.

It was nearing the middle of the night when Geralt’s wolf medallion started vibrating faintly.

He jostled Ciri at his side, “Not long now,” he said, watching Jaskier for the faintest sign of life.

One moment his bard was utterly still and dead to the world. The next he was sucking in a harsh breath and coughing into Geralt’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier wheezed once he caught his breath.

Geralt and Ciri stumbled over each other trying to reassure Jaskier. “…should have smelled the drowners…” “…shouldn’t have gone to the water by myself...”

Jaskier smiled up at Ciri and his Witcher. “Hush. I’ve got a headache.”

Geralt and Ciri started doting on Jaskier even more after that admission. 

He relaxed in Geralt’s arms and fell asleep with a smile on his face.


	2. Smiles That Haunt

“Jaskier?!” Yennefer yelled as she made her way back to the clearing she’d last seen the bard. 

She had little hope that he’d made it out of the fight unscathed. He and Geralt had been training together at least as long as she’d been traveling with them, but the bard was still inexperienced, especially compared to the Nilfgaardian soldiers they’d been up against. She still wasn’t prepared for the sight of him.

Jaskier laid surrounded by the bodies of the men he’d managed to kill before falling. Yennefer knelt beside the bard. Though she knew it would be fruitless, she rested a hand on his chest and reached out with her chaos to check for any sign of life. As she suspected, only his body remained, broken as it was. 

Yennefer looked over his injuries. She guessed the crossbow bolt to the thigh had led to his undoing, slowing him down enough for someone to strike him deep across the abdomen. Though she had seen countless horrors in her life, Yennefer could barely spare a glance at the sight of Jaskier’s viscera peeking through the wound.

Jaskier’s dagger was still stuck fast in the throat of the soldier laying closest to him. Yennefer smelled Jaskier’s blood on the soldier’s sword and felt a spark of pride for the bard. Though she wished she could have killed the Nilfgaardian slowly, Jaskier avenging himself was exactly the type of poetic justice he would have loved. 

“Damnit, Jaskier,” she whispered, her eyes started to water when the reality of the situation set in. Jaskier’s death would break Geralt. Anyone who spent any amount of time with them could see how much they loved each other. She didn’t understand it, their love was so different from most relationships, so different from anything she had ever experienced herself. But it was undeniable. 

Yennefer leant down and kissed his brow. The stupid bard was easy to love, he’d weaseled his way into her own heart without her even knowing. They’d had a stilted friendship over the years. Full of half-hearted insults and quick banter, but mostly mutual affection for a certain grumpy Witcher. As loath as she was to admit it, there were probably few people who understood her as well as Jaskier had.

Years of survival forced Yennefer to focus on the larger situation. She looked around, sure that she and Jaskier had killed the entire squad that had attacked them. But they needed cover. Well…she needed cover and safe place to hide Jaskier’s body.

Thankfully, her pack was still on her back. She tugged it off and set up her tent with a flick of her wrist. Geralt wouldn’t be back from town for a few hours yet, having volunteered to venture to the nearest market for a resupply. They had been planning to travel a little further before making camp, but she doubted Geralt would be in any condition to continue after returning. 

She sighed and reached down to move Jaskier into the tent. With all his flamboyant energy and skipping about, it was easy to forget that Jaskier wasn’t a small man. He stood about the same height as Geralt and was leanly muscled from years of foot traveling and performing. With the aid of a little chaos she gently pulled him into the spacious tent and laid him out on an extra cot she usually kept tucked away. She sat down beside him, unsure what to do next. 

Eventually, Yennefer stood and pulled a sheet from her stash of spare linen. She arranged his limbs in a more natural position and draped the sheet over his body. 

Yennefer cast a spell around the tent to keep out any unwanted guests and went to look for Jaskier’s things. She found his Lute and pack in the thick underbrush near where he’d been fighting. 

For a man with a love of fine things he carried very little. Just his lute, some extra clothes, a few expensive soaps, and the small traveler’s notebook he used for composing and documenting his travels with Geralt. A flash of silver caught Yennefer’s eye on her way back to the tent. Jaskier’s dagger was still buried in the neck of his murderer. She yanked it free and kicked the man over to wipe the blade clean on his back. Feeling the slightest bit vindicated, she carried everything back to the tent for Geralt to sort through later. He was the closest thing Jaskier had to a next of kin. 

Yennefer sat Jaskier’s things just inside the entrance of the tent and cast her gaze around, looking for something else she could do to distract herself from the body laying against the far wall. She decided to start a fire the traditional way and turned to go collect some tinder when she felt it. 

There was the hint of chaos in the air that was not her own. Older, weaker, but unmistakable. She flew to the door of the tent, hands at the ready to attack whatever mage or other magic user had followed them, but the chaos seemed further away. She took a few steps backwards and sensed the magic getting stronger. Yennefer quickly scanned over her surroundings, looking for signs of a trap or curse and realized the chaos was focused on Jaskier’s body.

She cautiously made her way to his side and pulled the sheet back. Upon further inspection she realized the chaos was coming _from_ Jaskier rather than being forced upon him. Before she could search deeper for the source of the magic, Jaskier took a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

Yennefer froze for a moment until Jaskier tried to sit up. She shoved him back down with an arm across his chest.

“Yen?”

“Stay down,” Yennefer hissed, ripping his shirt open to look at his wound. Beneath the blood coating his abdomen, his skin had knitted itself back together, a thin scar started to fade before her eyes.

Jaskier groaned, “What’s – what’s wrong with my leg?” he asked, trying to raise his head to look. 

Yennefer pushed him back down again, “A bolt,” she said stiffly, mind still swirling with possible explanations as to what was going on.

“Get it out,” Jaskier said through gritted teeth. 

Yennefer paused but recovered quickly, pushing aside her confusion and grief to focus on the task at hand. She let her chaos flow through her fingertips and probed at the arrow, assessing its location and the damage it caused.

“Jas it’s…it’s near an artery. I can’t…”

“I died, right?” Jaskier asked bluntly, looking her in the eye, “I’m still healing, but the chaos won’t stay long. You need to get it out. Now. Please, Yen.” His voice broke and he tossed his head back, leaning into the rough fabric of the cot.

“Okay, okay.” Yennefer summoned her med kit to her side. Jaskier’s trousers were quickly torn away from the wound and Yennefer tied a tourniquet above the arrow. She braced one hand on his leg and used the other to grip the bolt, swiftly pulling it free without warning. 

Jaskier screamed and blood spurted from the wound in time with his heart. Yennefer clamped down on it with a wad of bandages, horrified with herself at what she’d done. She could hear Jaskier’s heart pound harshly against his ribs, pulsing blood up through her fingers at an alarming rate. He was dying. Again apparently, because she’d panicked and listened to a half-dead bard instead of thinking through the situation.

For the second time in as many hours, she felt the unfamiliar burn of tears in her eyes and looked up at Jaskier’s face. But he was looking more like himself with every moment that passed. His breaths started to even out and his usual color returned to his cheeks. He pushed himself up on his elbows before sitting up completely. He silently reached down and pulled Yennefer’s hand away from the wound. Beneath the sodden bandages, new skin stretched across the wound, fading much like the wound across his stomach.

Jaskier fell back with a harsh breath, “Wasn’t sure that would work,” he muttered. 

His comment shook Yennefer from her shock, and she dropped the bandages, grabbing Jaskier by the collar and giving him a hard slap across the cheek. Her hand left a smear of blood across his face.

“What the fuck?” she screamed, pouring her grief and confusion into her words, “You were dead! And you made me pull that out? Knowing it might have killed you again?”

Jaskier lightly gripped her wrist. “I was healing with it inside me. Pulling it free was better than you having to cut it out later, yes? And I would have come back again even if it did kill me.”

Yennefer released Jaskier and sat down hard on the floor beside him, “Your chaos is starting to fade,” she whispered, “What are you?”

With a sigh Jaskier sat himself up and reached for the tiny dagger he kept in his doublet. After cutting off the tourniquet, he slid to the floor beside Yennefer. 

“I’m human. Mostly.” He stretched his still-healing leg out in front of him and began his tale.

*********

“A Phoenix,” Yennefer mused, “That sorcerer is in the records at Aretuza. They don’t know he succeeded.”

She glanced over to Jaskier, “It’s probably best they never learn the truth.”

Jaskier nodded and reached down to rub the new scar on his leg. “I don’t think I’d like being a lab rat,” he murmured.

Yennefer reached over and tilted his chin up to look at her. She slid her hand up to cup the cheek she’d slapped, dried blood flaking off at her touch, “Sorry about that,” she said, letting some of her own chaos slip through her fingers to heal the new bruise. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier said with a soft smile.

“It’s not. But you’re sweet for saying so,” Yennefer leaned over to kiss his newly-healed cheek.

“We’re both going to be in trouble when he smells that,” Jaskier laughed as a blush colored his cheeks. 

Yennefer couldn’t help but smile. She could tell Jaskier was still settling back into his body and rubbed gentle circles on his back as slight tremors shook his frame.

“Does he know?” She asked quietly.

“A few months now,” Jaskier nodded. “The first time was right before we dropped Ciri off with Nenneke. I – I was planning to tell you soon. I figured this would happen again with how things have been going. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

Yennefer shook her head, “You have nothing to apologize for. I only wish you could have told me in your own time.”

Jaskier sighed, “I…have a newfound respect,” he said quietly, “For people like you and Geralt. I know now why he usually tries to push mortals away.”

“I’m glad you have each other,” Yennefer murmured, “It’s not an easy path to take alone.”

He leaned into Yennefer’s side, “How long was I out?”

“I think about two hours. Geralt should be back soon.”

“It’s working faster now,” Jaskier looked down at himself and grimaced, “He’s going to feel guilty when he gets back. He treats it like a personal failure every time this happens.”

“Every time…how often have you died?”

Before Jaskier could answer, Geralt’s quick, heavy footfalls reached the tent, “Jaskier?! Yen!”

Geralt burst through the tent flap and froze at the sight of his bloody bard. He knelt down beside them and reached out cautiously.

“I’m okay,” Jaskier said softly, breaking away from Yennefer to shift closer to Geralt, “I look awful, but I’m okay.”

Yennefer held back a smile at the gentle concern radiating from Geralt. He looked Jaskier over carefully before tugging him close to his chest and burying his nose in Jaskier’s hair.

The sorceress gave the odd pair some space while she heated water so Jaskier could bathe and made quick work of the blood splattered across her tent. 

She watched with amused endearment at Geralt’s endless tutting and Jaskier’s quiet reassurances, relieved that Geralt had finally let someone crack that shell of his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite scenes in the books so far (I'm not finished yet) is early in Blood of Elves where Dandelion and Yennefer are just sitting in a tavern and talking. They have such a soft friendship and mutual love of Geralt so I tried to blend that into their characterizations from the Netflix series. 
> 
> ❤️❤️❤️


	3. A Broken Hourglass

Jaskier and Geralt sat in the damp basement cell the Nilfgaardians had tossed them in, arms sore from the awkward position their chains kept them in, hungry, exhausted from torture and sleep deprivation. 

Geralt was working on the loose bolt that anchored the chain on his right arm to the wall when he heard the slightest change in Jaskier’s breathing. 

The real cruelty of Jaskier’s gift was the fact that while it could heal him nearly completely, it only worked after he was dead. The Nilfgaardians were careful, experts in causing extreme pain without killing their victims too quickly.

But the water in Jaskier’s lungs, combined with the cold, dank cell had taken a toll on the bard and pneumonia finally set in. It was in the early stages. Jaskier himself probably hadn’t even noticed yet, too distracted by his other countless hurts. 

Weakened by his other injuries and left under such conditions he would only last a few days at best. 

Panic and relief warred within Geralt. It would be an agonizingly slow death, but Jaskier would be free of torture and pain for a few hours and his body would be healed when he woke. The bigger problem was that too much could go wrong. Geralt wasn’t naïve enough to hope they would toss Jaskier’s body somewhere that he might be able to escape after waking up. 

More than likely they would mutilate him further after death or leave his corpse in the cell to torment Geralt. Either way Jaskier wouldn’t be able to hide his gift. And once the Nilfgaardians found out the bard could survive death, Geralt knew they would get more creative and less conservative in their methods.

A muffled cough echoed through their cell.

“Jask?”

“Yeah, m’here,” Jaskier mumbled and leaned his head back against the stone wall behind him.

“We’ll get out soon. You’ll be okay.”

“You’ve never been much of an optimist, Geralt,” Jaskier said with a chuckle that broke off into another cough.

Geralt looked away. He was hoping Jaskier wouldn’t realize the danger he was in for a few hours yet. But Geralt could tell he knew. Of course Jaskier knew. He was too damn observant for his own good.

“My lungs are my livelihood,” Jaskier said quietly, guessing Geralt’s thoughts, “Second only to my hands. I can tell when they’re failing.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier’s broken hands. Jaskier’s singing was nice, but what always mesmerized Geralt was watching the bard’s fingers fly across the strings of his lute. It was a muscle memory so ingrained that Geralt often caught Jaskier strumming through songs and exercises while his mind was somewhere far away. Hanging in the shackles, his strong but delicate fingers were bent and swollen beyond recognition. 

“It’s okay, Geralt. I haven’t broken,” Jaskier said with a hint of pride, “And I know you never will. It will be over soon.”

“And then get worse,” Geralt whispered.

“I don’t think it will,” Jaskier said just as quietly. 

Geralt furrowed his brow, “Jaskier?”

“You’ve not used any magic since we were thrown in here,” Jaskier paused to catch his breath, “Is the Dimeritium in your cuffs or the walls?”

“…Jask.”

“Walls then,” Jaskier said, resigned, “I don’t know how that will affect me. But just in case, I’m sorry, Geralt. I thought we’d have more time. Thought…we’d make it to the coast.”

“Stop that.” Geralt yanked on his chains again. “We’ll be free before it comes to that.”

“Okay,” Jaskier said, clearly humoring Geralt, “I trust you, Witcher.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?”

Jaskier laughed quietly, “You still need to hear it sometimes.”

Geralt didn’t respond, too focused on trying to twist his arm around to reach the loose bolt. He realized after a few minutes that it was too quiet.

“Jask? Jaskier?!” Geralt was about to risk drawing the attention of their guards when he heard Jaskier’s breathing. Heavy and slow with sleep and sickness. He decided to let his bard be for the time being. Rest was more important than forcing consciousness on him.

Not that Jaskier got much of a respite. He deteriorated swiftly during the night. It wasn’t long before a wheeze accompanied each grating breath, and Geralt could hear the crackle of fluid in his lungs, worsened by his upright position. His heart started to beat faster, trying to compensate for the lack of oxygen. Jaskier had even less time than Geralt originally thought.

It was still in the early hours of the morning when Jaskier was dragged from his chains to be taken back to the rack. Geralt threw himself against his own restraints, wishing against all reason that their captors would take him for once. Another session at their hands would only shorten the brief amount of time Jaskier had left. 

The guards didn’t even spare Geralt a glance as they dragged the bard away, long past bothering to actually ask either of them for information. They were just torturing them for their own amusement. Geralt winced when Jaskier’s horse screams began. 

The only thing worse than Jaskier’s cries was when they were abruptly cut off, though the guards’ screams of terror interrupted his spiraling thoughts before they got away from him. 

Though she spoke too softly for him to understand her words, he would recognize Yennefer’s voice anywhere. She soon appeared outside his cell with a set of keys, breaking in easily and getting to work on his shackles.

“Jaskier?” He asked, too afraid to get more specific.

“Worried about you,” Yennefer replied carefully, “He’s…in a bad way.”

Geralt was out the door as soon as he was free and tore through the hall to the torture chamber at the other end.

Laid out on the table, Jaskier’s chest heaved with every painful breath and his clothes were soaked with cold water. Yennefer must have cut him free of his restraints, but he was too weak to move aside from rolling his head to meet Geralt’s gaze. Geralt paused when he caught the wild look in Jaskier’s glassy eyes, clearly deep in a survival mode the bard didn’t have cause to enter often.

“Carry him upstairs,” Yennefer said sharply, “I can’t open a portal down here.”

Geralt approached Jaskier slowly, “Can I…?” He reached out but stopped just shy of actually touching Jaskier, not sure how he would react to a kind hand after weeks of nothing but pain.

Jaskier’s eyes flicked to Geralt’s hands but he gave a shaky nod.

Geralt carefully folded Jaskier’s arms over his chest so his hands wouldn’t get jostled. He was sure there were few places on Jaskier’s body that _didn’t_ hurt, but he considered it well worth the few extra seconds it took to avoid the worst of them. Tossing the bard over his shoulder didn’t seem like the best of ideas so he carefully lifted him under the knees and at his upper back, cradling him close to his chest.

At the top of the dark stairwell a portal was already opened. Geralt stepped through and found himself in the bedroom of one of Yennefer’s safe houses. A simple but well-furnished space with large windows letting in the late afternoon light. He eased Jaskier down on the bed, sweeping the pillows to the floor so he could lay flat.

Yennefer stepped through the portal a moment later, Jaskier’s lute and Geralt’s swords slung over her shoulder. She set their things down and flew to a cabinet across the room.

“Get him out of his wet clothes,” Yennefer said, dropping a knife and towel on the bed. She left the room without another word, but Geralt could hear the clinks of her sorting through potions in somewhere else in the house.

Geralt worked Jaskier’s ruined shirt off. The sodden fabric turned out to be a small mercy, loosening the places where the shirt had adhered to Jaskier’s wounds, sparing him a small bit of pain. Geralt cut through the sleeves so he wouldn’t have to pull them over Jaskier’s hands and patted him dry as best he could without aggravating the lashes and cuts crisscrossing Jaskier’s torso. 

He covered him with a woolen blanket from the foot of the bed and sat at Jaskier’s side, combing his fingers through his damp hair and trying to think of something to say to comfort him. The bard seemed to come back to himself somewhat. He remained eerily quiet but Geralt felt the tension leave Jaskier as he relaxed into the bed and leaned into Geralt’s touch. 

“Lift his head,” Yennefer said, appearing at Jaskier’s other side with a cup in hand. Geralt obeyed without question and watched Yennefer pour a potion down Jaskier’s throat. 

Yennefer sat the cup aside. She laid one hand on Jaskier’s forehead and the other on his chest. Geralt could feel the influx of chaos around them as she used her magic to check over his injuries. She grimaced and met Jaskier’s gaze, a wordless conversation passed between them for a split second until Jaskier looked away. Yennefer pulled back, face tense but voice soft, “That painkiller should start working soon, Jas,” she said, tucking a curl behind his ear.

She looked to Geralt and nodded toward the door.

“What is it?” Geralt asked as soon as they were in the hall.

Yennefer took a deep breath and glanced back at Jaskier, “He’s dying, Geralt.”

He knew Yennefer was right, but his chest tightened at hearing it said aloud, “Then _do_ something.”

“Geralt…I don’t know that I can. His body is shutting down. He has internal injuries and broken bones that are days old, every open wound is infected, and his pneumonia has developed so far, he can barely breathe. Even if I manage to save him it will take him months to fully recover and his hands might never be the same.”

“He’s still alive, you have to try. Yen, please.”

Yennefer picked up Geralt’s hand, “We could let him go, help him go. His body will heal itself and he’ll be fine by this time tomorrow.”

“He’s been through enough, Yennefer. I’m not going to let him suffer a slow death,” Geralt pulled away, “And I’m not putting him down like an animal.”

“I didn’t say you have to take your sword to him,” Yennefer hissed, "There are other ways. Regardless, this is his decision. If he wants me to try and heal him I will, but if not, we need to consider–.”

“No, Yen. We’re not going to consider anything.”

“Please don’t fight,” a raspy, whispered voice froze Geralt and Yennefer in their tracks. They looked to the bard. His eyes were closed, face turned toward the sunshine streaming through the window, skin sickly gray despite the warm light.

“Hearing’s…still okay,” he said between gasps, “Come here.”

Yennefer and Geralt were at his side a moment later, “Sorry, Jas,” Yennefer said, resting a hand on his arm.

Jaskier shook his head, “It’s okay.” He opened his eyes and turned away from the window. “What did you…have in mind?”

“It’s up to you, Jaskier,” Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed, “You heard everything. I can treat your injuries if you want. Or I can make it painless…if you would rather…”

“I would.”

“Okay,” Yennefer said softly, “I can keep the pain away and help you sleep until you go on your own. Or…I could make a poison. A fast one, you wouldn’t feel anything.”

Jaskier looked to Geralt then gazed out the window again, “Let’s make it quick.”

Yennefer gave his arm a gentle squeeze and left to gather the ingredients she needed.

After she was gone, Geralt took her place and started combing through Jaskier’s hair again. 

“I’m sorry…to do this to you. I just…I can’t –,” Jaskier floundered and tried to catch his breath.

“It’s okay, Jask,” Geralt hushed him, “I was being selfish.”

“You’re many things,” Jaskier finally met Geralt’s eyes, a small smile on his lips, “Never selfish.”

Geralt hummed and pulled another blanket from a chair nearby to tuck around Jaskier, “Do you need anything?”

Jaskier looked away shyly, “Hold me?”

As gently as he could, Geralt lifted Jaskier and slid onto the bed behind him, letting his bard rest against his chest, “Okay?”

“Yeah…Yen has the good stuff.”

Geralt smiled and leaned his forehead against Jaskier’s temple, “She always does.”

Jaskier coughed and winced as his injuries were jostled. Geralt wrapped an arm around his chest, pulling him as close as he could without hindering his breathing.

They sat in silence while they waited for Yennefer to return. Jaskier’s rattling breaths echoed through Geralt’s chest. He could hear a hitch in Jaskier’s heartbeat, the muted grinding of bones shifting in ways they weren’t meant to. Yen and Jaskier were right. The best thing they could do was let him go, let his chaos do the work.

It still felt wrong. Jaskier was dying _again_ , because Geralt had been too slow, not observant enough. The Nilfgaardians never should have gotten the drop on them. Then the bastards had focused the worst of the torture on Jaskier, knowing it was the only way to get to Geralt.

“Hey,” Jaskier gently bumped his head to Geralt’s.

“I’m so sorry, Jask,” Geralt choked out.

“Me too. Didn’t want…to hurt you like this.”

Geralt closed his eyes and breathed in Jaskier’s calming scent. His selfless bard, more worried about hurting Geralt than his own pain.

The bed shifted and Geralt looked up to find Yennefer with a tiny bottle in hand. She spared him a glance before reaching for Jaskier’s hand. She caught herself, hesitated for a moment, and gripped his wrist instead.

“Ready?” she asked.

Jaskier nodded and Yennefer tipped the tiny vial into his mouth. He swallowed and leaned back against Geralt, eyes already drifting shut. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Geralt’s chest.

Geralt reached up to cradle Jaskier’s head when it started to loll back. “I’ll be here when you come back,” he whispered.

Jaskier breathing eased a bit and he slipped seamlessly from consciousness. Geralt listened as his heart slowed beyond that of a Witcher’s pulse, tapering off into a few light faltering beats before it stopped altogether. Geralt sat frozen holding Jaskier. A familiar numbing grief filled his chest, making every other sensation clouded and distant. 

Eventually, he caught a movement in his peripheral vision and his eyes landed on Yennefer’s hand still holding Jaskier’s wrist, rubbing small circles with her thumb. He dragged his gaze up to meet her eyes and saw his own grief reflected there.

“Thank you, Yen.”

She nodded silently and laid Jaskier’s hand down before shifting off the bed.

“Let’s get him comfortable,” she said quietly.

Jaskier was soon settled in clean clothes, tucked in among several soft pillows and blankets, but before Geralt could sit back down Yennefer herded him toward the door. 

“There’s a bathtub in the next room,” she explained.

“Yen, I can’t…I can’t leave him.”

“I’ll stay with him. You’ll be back before he wakes, and he’ll be upset with you if you’re in this state when he sees you.”

Geralt glanced down at himself. His own injuries were minimal, but his clothes were tattered, stained with weeks of grime and blood from his time in the Nilfgaardians’ den. He didn’t much mind himself, but Jaskier would be dismayed to see he hadn’t taken care of himself.

He glanced back to the still form on the bed but allowed Yennefer to nudge him out the door.

*********

Everything ached. His back, his head, even his fingers. Jaskier tried to make a fist only to find his hands splinted. That concerned him enough to open his eyes.

Early morning lit the room and a small fire burned low in the hearth. He found Geralt laying at his side, an arm wrapped protectively across his chest. Jaskier smiled and tilted his head to lean into Geralt’s hair, picking up the scent of his own jasmine shampoo on the damp strands. 

Yennefer entered with a steaming mug of tea and a kind smile.

“You were gone a long time, Jas,” she said, sitting beside Jaskier and holding the cup for him to drink.

Once satisfied that Jaskier had drank enough of the clove and willow bark tea, she picked up his hand to inspect the newly-mended bones. “I set the breaks while you were out. I don’t know if it helped at all, but I didn’t think it could hurt.”

She freed him of the splints and gently bent each finger, checking his range of movement. Jaskier could feel the tingling sensation of Yennefer using her magic to examine his bones and tendons.

“Any pain?” she asked, releasing his right hand and moving on to the left.

Jaskier experimentally flexed his hand, “A little stiff. Not bad though.”

He met Yennefer’s gaze when she glanced up from her work. She did a double take, eyes widening slightly as she looked at his face more closely. 

“You look like a pup,” she whispered, reaching up cup his cheek.

“No more crow’s feet?” Jaskier asked with a grin.

Yennefer ignored Jaskier’s invitation for banter, still looking over his face. “I didn’t notice any change last time. Does it not always happen?”

Jaskier shrugged, “I’m not sure. Some think it slows with age or dying more frequently, but…we don’t really know much about the curse. There always seems to be an exception to the patterns we can recognize.”

“It’s not a curse, Jaskier,” Yennefer said, softening her gaze and returning to her task, “It’s just biology. You must realize that by now.”

“I’m starting to,” he whispered, reaching over to brush Geralt’s hair back from where it tickled his cheek.

“What did I hear about a pup?” Geralt mumbled.

Jaskier chuckled, “Yen is afraid people will get the wrong idea about us.”

“I said no such thing, bard.”

Geralt grumbled something unintelligible and readjusted so Jaskier was tucked at his side.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” Jaskier said, melting into Geralt’s warmth.

“They already get the wrong idea about us,” Geralt sighed, drifting back to sleep.

Jaskier situated himself and took a deep breath, relieved to find he could do so with only an echo of the pain he’d had earlier.

Yennefer gathered the discarded bandages and leant down to kiss Jaskier on the cheek, “It’s good to have you back, Jas. You need to eat soon, but rest for now. I’ll wake you both later.”

“Thank you, Yen,” Jaskier said. He felt sleep tugging at him as well. He reached out as Yennefer pulled away, “Really, thank you.”

She gave his hand a light squeeze, understanding what he couldn’t voice, “Of course, Jaskier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was editing and revising this chapter I realized it has some similarities to one of my favorite episodes of the original 60s Star Trek, 'The Empath' (season 3). In that episode the triumvirate is captured and tortured. One of the scenes near the end is really similar to Yen telling Geralt that Jaskier is dying. So I'm going to credit that as inspiration😅.


	4. Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of violence, the war with Nilfgaard has finally ended. But a heartbroken Jaskier makes a desperate move when he can't find his loved ones in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: self-harm, suicide, and depression
> 
> This one is rough:(

The tiny dagger had been a gift from Geralt a few years after they started traveling together. His excuse had been that he was tired of lending Jaskier his own knife every time the bard wanted to slice an apple or cut a rose from the roadside bushes, but Jaskier knew better. It had been the week of his 23rd birthday and while Geralt handed it to him with his usual gruffness that hadn’t quite worn off yet, Jaskier could tell that great care had gone into choosing it.

It had a sharp steel blade and a silver plated hilt, engraved with his initial near the pommel, an understated paisley pattern worked the rest of way up the grip. It was beautiful but practical and sturdy, not overtly masculine or feminine. Not unlike Jaskier himself. 

Jaskier had taken special care of it over the years. Geralt taught him how sharpen the blade and clean it without damaging the engraving. He always carried it inside whatever doublet he was wearing. Later, a larger dagger rested beside it, when the world got more dangerous for a traveling bard.

After the mountain he often found himself at the edge of a river or stream, the dagger gripped tightly in hand as he tried to work up the courage to toss it away. But he’d never been able to. It rested at the bottom of his satchel for a few months and collected tarnish. He didn’t clean it until the day he found Geralt and Ciri. He’d stayed up late that night, gently polishing the silver hilt until it shined like new, sharpening the blade back to its razor edge.

Jaskier thought he knew what heartbreak felt like, but nothing compared to the all-consuming agony that nearly sent him to his knees when he realized that Geralt was really gone. Someone might have well taken a knife to his chest. He _did_ know what that felt like. At least when that had happened, he knew the pain would end eventually. But there was no end in sight for him this time. Grief isn’t often a fatal wound. He couldn’t do this for another…what two, three lifetimes? However long it would take for the chaos embedded in his veins to stop dragging him back.

Geralt would be appalled if he saw the dagger in Jaskier’s bloodied, trembling hand. Maybe that’s why he’d chosen it when he decided to take a blade to his arms. Maybe if Geralt sensed that a gift given as a sign of friendship was being used in such a way he would come back.

But Geralt was dead. Yennefer too. Casualties of the last battle in the war against Nilfgaard. Jaskier wouldn’t force himself to hope otherwise. They couldn’t come back like he could. Not that he would ever wish the hell he was stuck in on another living being, let alone two of the people who ever actually cared about him. 

He switched arms and made another deep cut. It didn’t even hurt anymore. The first time had been so excruciating he barely managed to finish the job before passing out. But it was reassuring in a way, to know he could still feel anything at all aside from numbness and grief. 

The second time was nearly as bad. The third stung a bit. By the fourth he was back to the familiar numbness of before. He lost count somewhere around seven, lost in the endless cycle of waking up groggy, remembering, and reaching for the blood stained blade again. 

_Stupid fucking curse_. He thought, dropping the dagger to the ground when the blood loss made it too difficult to grip it any longer. 

_I see why the others went mad. Maybe I’m going a bit mad too._

_I just want to die._

_Actually die._

_Please. Please just let me go._

Jaskier told himself he wouldn’t hope for anything anymore, but he had to hope he was close to the end. Even children of the Phoenix had their limits, this couldn’t go on forever. He squeezed his fist, trying to get the blood to flow a little faster. 

The hand on his shoulder and the voice demanding his attention didn’t register for a few seconds, his mind too fuzzy with apathy. Shaking hands grabbed his arms and fresh blood flowed over familiar-looking fingers. Whoever it was tried to wrap the wounds with the quilt from his bedroll he’d abandoned nearby.

 _Don’t bother_ , he wanted to say, _it’s too late_.

The calloused hands were warm against his bloodless cheeks when they grabbed his face and forced him to meet the eyes of the kind-hearted stranger trying to save him. A set of cat eyes stared back at him, pupils blown wide with panic and fear. But Jaskier didn’t notice that, he just noticed the unmistakable color of the irises. He forced himself to focus on the rest of the face and found Geralt staring back, saying something he couldn’t hear.

Jaskier slumped against Geralt’s chest with relief, the last of his strength draining away.

*********

It took them too long to find his bard. Yennefer was nearly as weak as she’d been after Sodden, not able to summon enough chaos for any kind of locating spell for a few weeks. He knew Jaskier would be in rough shape when he found him, but he never expected it to be so bad.

He’d been painfully close to making it in time to save Jaskier from himself. A few minutes earlier and he could have stopped him before he went too far, slowed the bleeding enough to get him back to Yennefer. Instead he’d only just made it in time to hold him for his last few breaths.

The worst part though was when Geralt noticed the dried blood on Jaskier’s clothes and realized that it hadn’t been the first time he took his own life. The ground surrounding him was saturated as well, so much so that Geralt couldn’t even hazard a guess at how many times Jaskier had died in the little clearing he finally found him in.

Geralt couldn’t bear to meet Yennefer’s eyes when he’d stepped back through her portal to the house she’d found for them. With Jaskier lifeless in his arms he could barely form a coherent thought, let alone speak. He’d walked past her and took Jaskier to his room. He didn’t bother to clean either of them up or even pull off the bulky, useless bandages he’d used to try and slow the bleeding. He sat with his back to the headboard, Jaskier held firmly in his lap, and waited.

And waited.

It took so long Geralt started to worry that Jaskier had managed what his ancestors never could. Jaskier had always been an impossible being. It would be just like him to be the first human with Phoenix blood to actually die by suicide.

But finally, when Geralt was on the edge of panic he felt his medallion start to vibrate. A few minutes later he heard Jaskier’s heart pick up its regular rhythm and a tiny gasp from the man in his arms.

Jaskier’s eyes were glassy when he opened them. He reached out, searching for something but froze when his hand met the soft bedding. Slightly more aware, Jaskier looked around until he found Geralt above him.

Before he could say anything Geralt found himself wrapped up in Jaskier’s arms. The bard twisted to curl himself around Geralt’s torso, face buried in his Witcher’s chest.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath, “It finally worked.”

“Jask,” Geralt soothed, gently rubbing Jaskier’s back.

The bard ignored him, squeezing tighter as though Geralt would dissolve if he didn’t hold him together. 

Geralt felt Jaskier’s body shake with the sobs he was heaving. He grabbed his face as he had back in the clearing and forced him back a few inches.

“Jask. Jaskier!” 

Tears streaked down Jaskier’s cheeks and his shoulders shook with the effort he made to steady his breathing. He reached out and cupped Geralt’s cheek.

“I never really believed there was anything after,” Jaskier whispered, he brushed Geralt’s hair back, running his fingers through the silver strands.

Geralt pulled in a sharp breath when he realized what Jaskier meant. He shook his head, “Jask, no. That’s not – we’re not.”

He broke off at the concerned look on Jaskier’s face. The bard brushed away tears that Geralt hadn’t even noticed yet. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Geralt shook his head, “Nothing’s wrong. We’re alive, Jaskier. We’re both alive.” He pulled Jaskier back to his chest.

“We’re alive?” Jaskier asked.

A nod was all Geralt could manage. He tucked Jaskier under his chin and let himself cry properly as Jaskier’s tears soaked the front of his shirt.

Jaskier’s tears eventually stopped but he shuddered in Geralt’s arms. “How – how did you survive? I checked all the wounded and…the dead. I thought you were lost in the fires.”

Geralt’s heart twisted at the betrayal in Jaskier’s voice. “I didn’t want to leave you. Tissaia found me and Yennefer. She used the last of her strength to pull us through a portal to a healer she knows. I woke up a few days later, but I was too weak to go after you on foot and Yen wasn’t strong enough for magical means.” He leaned down to kiss Jaskier’s forehead, “I’m so sorry, Jask.”

“You found me,” Jaskier whispered, burrowing ever closer to Geralt, “That’s all I care about.”

Eventually Jaskier let Geralt carry him to the washroom down the hall to soak in a hot bath. Beneath the layer of dried blood coating his arms the scars where thin and faded much like the marks of his previous deaths. Jaskier studied them for a moment and then looked away. He sunk neck deep in the warm water and let Geralt wash the blood from his arms and the grime from his hair.

He collapsed in the bed when they returned and tugged Geralt in after him. He curled around the Witcher, half on his chest and fell asleep minutes later.

Geralt wasn’t surprised the first few days Jaskier stayed in bed. He was always exhausted after returning and it surely had to be worse with so many deaths so close together, but something was off. Jaskier was quieter than usual. He’d comment if the conversation demanded it or if he was asked a direct question, but he mostly let Geralt do the talking. 

When the days turned into a week and then neared two, he started to get concerned. Jaskier ate when Geralt brought him food and bathed when he nudged him toward the washroom, but he seemed to do little else. He hadn’t so much as tuned his lute since he woke up. Instead of scribbling poetry or bits of lyrics in his notebook, it sat on the bedside table untouched. 

He usually napped in the afternoons but when Geralt would check in on him he often found Jaskier staring at the wall or out the window, a blank expression on his face that he quickly hid when he noticed Geralt was watching him. Geralt discreetly removed all the weapons from the room and always checked that Jaskier left his straight razor in the washroom after he bathed. If Jaskier noticed he never mentioned it, not that he ever said much of anything.

Around the four week mark Jaskier stopped putting up any kind of front. He would swing between sleeping for days at a time to staying up through all hours of the night. It took more and more coaxing to get him to leave his room for a bath or a short walk around the house. He barely picked at his food, mechanically eating of few bites of whatever was placed in front of him before pushing it away. What concerned Geralt most though was the seemingly permanent blank expression on his face. His bard who had always been so full of life and love barely resembled his former self.

“I don’t know what to do, Yen,” Geralt said one morning as he scraped out Jaskier’s bowl. “I feel like I’m losing him again.”

Yennefer sighed, “We just have to be patient, these things take time.”

“What if he never comes back?” Geralt whispered.

“He always comes back to you, Geralt. Part of him is still fighting or he wouldn’t still be here. All we can do is love him and make sure he’s safe and be here when he’s ready to open up. This might be something he fights for the rest of his life but he’s stubborn, he’ll be okay.” 

Geralt rinsed out the bowl and set it aside to dry. He turned to face Yennefer but kept his eyes on the floor. She stepped closer and squeezed his arm.

“How about you go into town today? We need some supplies anyway and you need a good long ride on your horse. There’s a bookshop in town. Stop and see if they have anything Jaskier would like.”

Geralt glanced toward Jaskier’s room.

“I think I can manage your bard for a few hours.”

“Thank you, Yen.” Geralt gave her a small smile and a kiss on the cheek before making his way to the stables.

*********

Yennefer watched Jaskier from the doorway. He was on his side, back to the window, motionless aside from the rise and fall of his chest and an occasional blink. She approached slowly and laid down beside him.

“You could do with a trim, bard.” Yennefer reached over and brushed the hair from Jaskier’s eyes.

She gently pulled his arms free from where they were crossed over his chest, and held his hand, making sure the underside of her wrist was in his line of sight. A few seconds later she got the reaction she was hoping for. Jaskier gasped quietly and brought his free hand up to touch her wrist. He hovered his fingers above her scars and flicked his eyes up to meet her gaze.

“It’s okay, Jas,” she said with a nod.

He gently traced the ridged marks as his eyes filled with tears.

“It was my first night in Aretuza,” she whispered, “I was a broken little girl with a broken mirror. Tissaia saved me then too. I was so angry with her when I woke up the next morning, but things got better. They will for you too, Jaskier.”

Jaskier covered her wrist with his hand and twisted his arm to look at his own scars.

“I know I should be happy,” he said quietly, tears dripping on his pillowcase, “There’s finally real peace and everyone I love survived the war. But I can’t – what’s wrong with me?”

“You went through quite the ordeal.” Yennefer cupped his cheek, “And you’re safe for the first time in a long time. Some people shut down for a while, when they no longer have to fight every second of every day. And that’s okay. You’ll let yourself feel again. You’re strong, Jas, I know you can do it.”

“It hurts too much,” Jaskier choked out.

Yennefer nodded, “It will for a while. But it gets easier.”

“Yen,” Jaskier whimpered and the floodgates opened. Yennefer pulled him close and held him until he cried himself to sleep.

*********

The next few days were a blur for Jaskier until he woke one morning with his head in Geralt’s lap. The Witcher carded gently through his hair as he read aloud from a familiar sounding children’s tale, it seemed as though he was quite a way into the story and Jaskier wondered just how much time he’d missed. He listened carefully, making an effort to focus on the plot.

“You have a nice voice for reading,” he said when Geralt finished a chapter and sat the book aside, “ _The Horse and His Boy_?”

“Mhmm.” Geralt held out a cup of tea and Jaskier sat up beside him to take it. “I thought we could do with a fairy tale.”

Jaskier leaned against Geralt and took a few sips of his tea. The story itched at something in his mind that he knew he should worry about but couldn’t quite recall. 

“Roach,” he whispered when he realized, “Is she…?”

“Stuffing herself in the pasture,” Geralt smiled “Yennefer found her after I brought you back. Would you like to see her?”

Jaskier _did_ want to see her but making the trip downstairs and outside seemed like an impossible task.

“You can see her from the window,” Geralt said as he slid off the bed and offered his hand to Jaskier.

Jaskier stumbled out of bed, muscles weak and uncoordinated from weeks of disuse, Geralt hovered nearby but let Jaskier walk to the window by himself. 

He found the chestnut mare in a small pasture attached to a stable, surprised to see another horse nuzzling her back as she grazed.

“Is the black one Yennefer’s? I don’t recognize it.”

“I picked him up in town the other day. I wasn’t looking for another horse yet, but he fell in love when he saw Roach, caused quite the scene in the market.”

Jaskier looked over the gelding’s glossy black coat, gleaming almost blue in the sunshine. His long, wavy mane fanned out above him as he tossed his head to avoid a nip from Roach. 

“He’s beautiful,” Jaskier breathed.

“I’m glad you like him. He’s pretty calm as long as Roach is nearby. I think he’s a good match for you.”

Jaskier looked over to Geralt, “He’s for me?”

Geralt nodded, “It’s a long trip to the coast and Roach can’t carry both of us. I think the sea would be good for us both, if that’s what you still want.”

“But Ciri…”

“Is a capable young woman now, busy rebuilding Cintra and I have no desire to be a royal advisor.”

Jaskier watched the horses for a while, “I do want to go,” he whispered, “I just – I’m not –.”

“We don’t have to leave tomorrow,” Geralt said gently, “We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

With a sigh Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s side and let the Witcher wrap him in a hug, “I don’t know how long that will take.”

“That’s okay, Jask” Geralt kissed the top of Jaskier’s head, “We certainly have the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early draft of this had very strong Achilles/Patroclus vibes but I was making myself way too sad so I toned it down a bit.
> 
> Update 2/15/2021: Hey, I haven't given up on this fic but I'm not sure when the next update will come. Haven’t been motivated to write lately but I like the plan I have for the rest of this so I'm definitely going to finish it, I just don't have a timeline for when that will actually happen:)


End file.
